there is a bomb in my temple & it's about to explode

mental illness

I am emailing you tonight because…well, there’s not a simple reason, I suppose. To start, my new therapist is fine, I suppose. She obviously doesn’t really compare to my relationship with you since we have four years of that and you know me very well, and you know I like to put up fights and you tend to deal with my bullshit pretty well. I actually skipped my last appointment with her. Most of it had to do with scheduling, but I also just felt no desire to go. The other woman, the one who deals with my medications, I have only seen once and she has failed to fill out my prescriptions for Latuda and Klonopin so I have been kind of floundering. I called to see what was up the other day but the receptionist never got back to me like she said she would. But I see this woman on Wednesday, so let’s hope I get my meds.

I was actually doing okay for a couple weeks, and then Monday I woke up and immediately was hit over the head with all these stressors (mostly expenses I don’t have the money for), so that was a shitty start to my day. Tuesday was worse. I got stuck in traffic on my way home from work (which I am quitting, even though I have no backup plan. Whatever.), for 45 minutes, and I was already in a rough mood so I started to cry, and when I got home I cried a lot more.

The rest of the week I have been exceptionally anxious. I’m having those feelings of derealization and it’s so unpleasant, scary, and uncomfortable…I do not know what to do. I feel very alone in this, and I feel as though something is deeply wrong with me. I have been passively suicidal, because, well, I’d rather die than feel insane.

I’ve been dating my partner, boyfriend, whatever you want to call him for two months. The first time we were physically intimate, beyond a mere kiss or subtle touch, occurred when I grabbed him against me and made out with him. The second time happened when I straddled him on the couch and we made out, again, for a long time, and I completely explored his body and eventually gave him oral sex.

My boyfriend is actually less sexually experienced than I am, but he’s more open to engaging in physical acts than I am. When we were fooling around, I refused to remove any article of clothing.

I know everyone deals with body confidence issues, but it angers and upsets me how deep mine go.

Yesterday we were sitting on his bed and he touched my shoulder and I recoiled in quite a volatile manner. I apologized, and we discussed it briefly. I was feeling depressed and although one part of my brain wanted to accept the touch, deeply desiring and enjoying it, the other, more dominant part of my brain, told my body to retreat, that I didn’t deserve to be touched, and to avoid it.

This toxic, argumentative part of my brain is always the part that wins, and I don’t know why.

Again, everyone deals with body confidence issues. We’re not thin enough, not toned enough, not muscular enough. We have cellulite and scars. Our stomachs aren’t flat. We have hair in places we don’t want hair. Whatever it is, it’s an issue. I guess my issue is, there’s not one part about my body that I like. Even when I was in shape and 75 pounds lighter than I am now and could actually be deemed “attractive” by the average person, I hated my body. But gaining the weight back has made my self-hatred even more severe.

The idea of not being in control scares me. If I let my partner dominate the situation, I lose control, and I won’t be able to enjoy myself amidst all of my worrying and self-hatred.

And don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate myself. I’ve come a long way, and generally, I quite like myself. But I only like the inside of myself. In fact, I love who I am as a person. However, that love and respect does not translate to my physical form, and for whatever reason, my disdain for my body trumps all self-love I do actually have.

I feel guilty because I don’t want my partner to think it’s him. I feel guilty because I can’t change how I feel about my body. I feel guilty because I can’t give my partner something he wants, and deserves.

I’m not sure how others, as uncomfortable as they are with their bodies, can take off their clothing and be okay with it.

It’s been a while since I’ve given you guys an update. I haven’t been blogging much, which makes me sad since I was doing so well before. I just haven’t felt like writing in general, which is never a good sign.

Last Tuesday Bennett texted me asking me if I wanted to hang out. I knew she was supposed to be working, so I asked what was up. She said she “got fired.” I immediately called her, as I do in any even slightly dramatic situation. She basically told me they were downsizing at our company. I called Frank, the operations manager, well-knowing I was also going, but he wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. Bennett came over and then we went out. I applied at Show World and then we went to Bar Louie, where I ate half of a burger and drank three really large beers which cost seven dollars apiece.

The next night I went in, feeling foul because I knew I was going to be let go. I told Dorothy, one of my favorite coworkers, I didn’t feel motivated to do anything since I knew. Finally around eight o’clock Frank came over and walked me back to his office. Right as he was getting into his scripted speech, a customer called and talked his ear off for a few minutes. Once he got off the phone he asked if a customer had asked my name earlier tonight, to which I responded “Yes.” It was clear that this customer complained about me, though I honestly am unsure of as to why, so that was even more of a reason to let me go, I suppose. Anyway, Frank read his speech and told me my position no longer existed, in a nutshell. I signed a paper giving me two weeks pay as severance. Strange. It’s also taxed 25 percent, so it’s better than nothing, but it’s still pocket change.

I really wanted to make it to the one-year mark with this job, and I know if the company hadn’t decided it needed to give so many people (mostly us part-timers) the axe, I would have made it. So now I have to job-hunt again and scrounge for change. Finding a job has never been easy, and it’s hard to find a job that’s tolerable. I didn’t like my job, but I didn’t hate it either, and I liked most of the people I worked with. I was comfortable there. And now I am forced to start over.

This, combined with the stress of school, my father’s unemployment, not being able to see my psychiatrist, and general depression makes for a miserable time. I constantly feel on edge and melancholy. I feel unmotivated and depressed. I feel like I can’t talk to any of my friends about it, mostly because I don’t know how to. I really miss my sessions with my psychiatrist. My anxiety has been heightened. All I want to do is sleep or drink. I feel out of place at my university and I’m putting so much pressure on myself to do exceedingly well and I’m struggling. My mental illness has been making me feel completely awful about myself, something I thought I had (mostly) overcome.

Something I struggle with:
My mental illness, as many of you already know.
I was diagnosed as having bipolar type two quite young, so young, in fact, that for a long time I doubted my diagnosis. But as time has gone on and psychiatrists have come and gone and research has been done, I realize it’s accurate.
I’ve been through many medications, some listed in a nonfiction piece I wrote which I think I’ll post. I’ve been on many that did nothing, many that worsened my condition, and a couple that helped for short while.
I struggle with things others may take for granted. I have to take medications every day and deal with their subsequent side effects. It’s a long process of never-ending trial and error. My moods shift abruptly and when I’m very depressed, I don’t feel like doing anything and it’s obvious. My illness is unique to me. I cry more easily than others, am extremely quick to anger, and once in a while, experience complete mental breakdowns, some more serious than others. I’ve dealt with self destructive behavior for nearly nine years, including cutting, binge drinking, and drug use.

My generalized anxiety and panic disorders also contribute to the way I deal with the world and how I experience life. Sometimes simply going into a public place seems daunting, and I quickly evacuate after entering. I never know when another panic attack will happen and despite how many times I’ve experienced the attacks, it’s never any less frightening.

So many people struggle with some kind of mental illness, and I’m thankful for those of us who attempt to help others and also break the stigma in society. It’s tough to live in a world which doesn’t like to acknowledge such issues exist. Some people tell us we’re wrong, we’re being dramatic, to just get over ourselves. If only it were that simple.

No, not really. But last night (actually very early this morning) I experienced the sleep phenomena known as “exploding head syndrome.” It is described as “a rare and relatively undocumented parasomnia event in which the subject experiences a loud bang similar to a bomb exploding, a gun going off, a clash of cymbals or any other form of loud, indecipherable noise that seems to originate from inside the head. Contrary to the name, exploding head syndrome has no elements of pain, swelling or any other physical trait associated with it. They may be perceived as having bright flashes of light accompanying them, or result in shortness of breath, though this is likely caused by the increased heart rate of the subject after experiencing it. It most often occurs just before deep sleep, and sometimes upon coming out of deep sleep” (ASA).

I was just on the brink of sleep and feeling anxious, as I sometimes do when I’m right about to fall asleep, when I heard this loud continuous rushing sound. I felt like I couldn’t move and it was overall an unpleasant feeling. I just waited it out and after a few seconds it stopped.

Here are some possible causes: “Exploding head syndrome is thought to be highly connected with stress and extreme fatigue in most individuals. What actually causes the sensation in individuals is still unknown, though speculation of possible sources includes minor seizures affecting the temporal lobe, or sudden shifts in middle ear components” (ASA).

I haven’t felt overly stressed lately (shocker) and I wasn’t really that tired, so why I experienced it, and have never before, is an anomaly, I suppose. I’m curious about the Latuda. I mean, I’ve felt extremely nauseas since I hit 60mg and have mysterious, long-lasting piercing headaches. Latuda is a new medication on the market so I’m sure there’s more to learn about the side effects.

Regardless, I’d like to not experience that again. And I wish this headache would go away.

I’ve lost track of how many updates I’ve done, but as for the Latuda and Lithium combination, it’s been six days of 750mg of Lithium combined with 60mg of Latuda. I went from 10 to 20 to 40 combined with my full dose of 900mg of Lithium over about a month.

I haven’t noticed much in terms of side effects, actually, nothing at all, aside from nausea, which I also experienced while very slowly increasing my dose of Lithium. Maybe I’m susceptible to nausea. I did notice that I’ve vomited twice in the past month or so after drinking. I rarely vomit from drinking. The last time, aside from late November, was April of 2014. So the nausea is not my favorite. It’s just plain uncomfortable. I’m also worried about gaining (more) weight, so I hope that “loss of appetite” side effect kicks in at some point.

Nevertheless, the last time I saw my psychiatrist, he said I seem to be doing better. It’s hard for me to tell sometimes. I’m still depressed and feel a lack of motivation in terms of eating better and exercising. The lack of daylight doesn’t help, nor does the exhaustion that comes from work and school and driving so much. But I have been somewhat motivated when it comes to my writing. I went on a big submission kick, started a new short fiction piece, wrote a few poems, and have been more active on here. The passive suicidal thoughts are mostly gone. I have my worries, but I don’t feel overly stressed about them. I haven’t cried in a while. Today I realized it’s been about three months since I had a panic attack, which is really, really good.

I hope the good continues and the bad continues to dwindle. I’d like to start being more physically active, despite it being winter. I’d like to continue being active with my writing. I hope my mood stays where it is, or better yet, improves. I have some home. Some.

Drinking has served in my life as a fluctuating habit more so than a fun activity. Part of this stems from the fact that my friends don’t really drink; my best friend will have a glass of wine once in awhile. The other two do drink, but not really with me – they tend to drink at parties or with their boyfriends. So I’ve never really had anyone to drink with for fun, aside from my brother, but it’d be nice to have the option of drinking with friends. I mean, for centuries humans have been poisoning themselves for a few hours in the goal to feel “better”, and that feeling really can be evoked when you’re drinking alongside good friends.

I’ve had periods, periods that lasted way too long, in which I drank almost every night, and I drank alone. After a while of that, my drinking began to diminish as I realized how little fun I was having and how miserable it was making me. This took place throughout my first two years of college. There were some nights when I’d take my mother’s wine (and I hate wine, mind you) and drink the entire bottle by myself. I would do shots of vodka alone in my room. Thankfully, that all came to an end. I can remember one evening in the summer, the summer after I turned 20, drinking Malibu and Coke in the garage. It was too early to be drinking, I think.

My third year, I only got drunk once in a while. I didn’t even get drunk on my 21st birthday. It probably also helped that throughout most of the year I was unemployed. Instead of spending my summer binge drinking like I had in the past, I only drank when I could afford to drink, which was seldom.

With that being said, drinking still has a very tight grip on my psyche. When I get stressed or angry, I usually just want a cigarette. When I get depressed though, I need something more than a cigarette, and none of the things I have in mind are all that great for the body or mind. My drinking picked up toward the end of the summer – I was extremely depressed throughout much of it anyway, and as the date of starting at a new university came upon me, I felt even more depressed. Things were changing and I wasn’t ready. I would drink for a few nights in a row. I drank an entire bottle of, again, terrible wine, which didn’t even get me drunk.

Once classes started, I toned it down, since I obviously can’t drink that often if I’m working and going to school most of the time. But lately I’ve been getting drunk every week, usually on Fridays. And it’s not even fun. That’s the thing – it’s not even fun. Last weekend when I drank, I didn’t get drunk, and I was disappointed. Last night, I got pretty drunk, but who cares? My best friend was with me the whole time, but if she’s not drunk, I’m just there as the slurring idiot.

For years I’ve realized this about drinking: it’s not that fun, but it’s all I have.